“Honey, I see ex-army, ex-CIA, and a current Secretary of Defense coming and going all the time.” Moxley jerked her head quickly at the team’s new HQ. “I somehow think I’m in the right place.”
Alicia considered her reply for a moment but then decided to go true to form. “I’d tell you to kiss my arse, but I’m pretty sure you’d enjoy it, and then I’ll never get rid of you. So, for now”—she gave a little flourish—“farewell.”
Alicia pushed past the reporters and jumped into one of the pool cars. A voice command turned the engine on, and by the time she merged with the steady flow of traffic, her mind was already far away from Sarah Moxley and Washington DC, centered firmly on the whereabouts of Matt Drake and Mai Kitano and what, if anything, she could do to help them.
CHAPTER TEN
They spotted the deer midway through the afternoon. By that time, they had established there were no other people on the island, but judging by tracks, old campfires and a broken-down structure, at some point in the not too distant past, someone had visited and stayed there.
Promising, but not positively uplifting news. They had no idea who the visitors might’ve been, and no way of contacting them. The foursome had decided to head back to the beach for the night and console themselves with a small portion of their frugal rations, resolving to start setting traps and hunting the next day, when Mai had held up a hand. Shocked, because of the ease of their passage so far that day, Drake had blinked and almost tripped, but soon caught himself when he spied the deer.
It stood alert, ears pricked, nostrils sniffing the breeze. A lovely creature, it appeared far too exquisite too harm, but red meat and protein would soon become the essence of survival for them, so Drake wasted no time in ambushing and shooting the beast. They carried it back, mouths watering, and then laid its body in a patch of barren ground a good walk from their shelter.
“The blood will soak into the ground,” Smyth had said, unsheathing his knife. “No point doing it too close to home when we don’t know what it might attract.”
As darkness fell, they lit a campfire, erected a spit, and roasted the best parts of the deer. Even before it had cooled, they were feasting, fingers burned and dripping, mouths savoring the taste. Drake couldn’t remember the last time food ever tasted so good. When they had finished, they all sat around the dying campfire in a comfortable silence.
It wasn’t long before they were asleep, Drake lying close to Mai, wondering what tomorrow might bring.
And as the night waxed and waned, Drake found himself half-waking and half-dreaming, all subconscious thoughts centered round Mai Kitano. It all went back to the beginning, back to when they first met.
It had been his second mission as part of the British SAS, in mid-1998. Drake had been twenty-three then, a competent, fresh, deadly special-forces soldier. Their target had been a Chechen warlord, the country’s most ruthless. Back in ’98 kidnapping was Chechnya’s major source of income, and the easy “go to” money-spinner for almost every aspiring warlord. And there were many. But Akhmad Doku ran them all — they could aspire no higher than to grace his boot with their shattered teeth. The new President Maskhadov was making things very hard for the warlords, resulting in some horrendous car bombings against official figures. Normally, the Chechen’s would solve matters from within, but Doku didn’t run his kidnapping business from inside the country; he ran it from nearby Turkey where the amenities and the lifestyle were a little more suited to his tastes.
Thus President Maskhadov had tugged at an old thread. His education had been through Oxford, his friends graduating into all kinds of business. One of them, a Commander Wells of the British SAS, had been all too happy to send an undercover team over to Istanbul to help eradicate the “Doku germ.”
So, a young Matt Drake found himself in the middle of the most chaotic city he’d ever known. And the crowds thronging the streets were nothing compared to the badly repaired houses that massed within and around the city. Space was at a premium, and when Drake saw the palatial dwelling with which the vile Chechen warlord rewarded himself, his blood ran a little hotter, his disgust a little greater. After a few days of investigating, they discovered Doku hosted a weekly party. Drake and another of the team were chosen to pose as guests.
The “prettiest” of the SAS team found themselves gliding along with other partygoers, genuine invite in hand — ripped from the dying hands of Doku’s dumbest goon — through a high, arched doorway and into the entrance hall of an ostentatious mansion. Drake didn’t like to dwell on the obvious trappings of madmen and murderers — the mock dungeon room; the sealed-off wings; the presence of armed guards; blank, staring eyes of most of the warlord’s “escorts;” or the barely concealed track marks on their forearms. Instead, he ventured as far as each sentry’s irritation would allow, creating a detailed map in his mind of every entry and egress point, every CCTV camera, every guard station, and the types and quantities of weapons they carried.
Around midnight, he found himself skirting the pool area and, though the evening had cooled a little, the clear waters were crowded with half-naked bodies. At the halfway point, he broke a promise to himself by gawking and almost fell into the pool. But it didn’t matter. Almost everyone else did the same.
The woman he later knew as Mai Kitano — she didn’t earn her nickname Shiranu until the legendary incidents of Y2K at Tokyo Coscon — emerged from the waters by way of the pool ladder. She shook her head as she climbed, sending sprays of water flying from the ends of her long black hair as it whipped around her body. The white two-piece swimsuit she wore drew attention to her perfect body, tanned, curved and flawless in every way. And whilst most people looked away quickly to preserve their decency, one man in particular stood up to get a better view.
Drake now recognized Akhmad Doku, a little, thin-faced weasel of a man who no doubt would serve mankind better as crocodile bait. He bellowed at Mai with that arrogant assurance that tyrannical leaders are known for and beckoned for his bodyguards to help her to his side — just in case she hadn’t heard. Drake watched the Japanese woman walk and was instantly sure that she knew how to handle herself. More than that, he was in no doubt that she was military trained. A plant?
He filed the incident away to report later.
The night wore on. Eventually the guests either began to drift away or fall into alcoholic comas. Doku was a benevolent host, allowing them the luxury of staying the night on his expansive deck and terrace. Drake was heading out, feigning drunkenness as the reason for his distance when the Japanese woman again stepped into his sights.
Still wearing the spectacular bikini. Her dark eyes rooted him to the spot. “I recognized you the moment I saw you.” Her voice was as soft as drifting snow.
“You know my name?” The young Drake was unnerved, still shaken by this vision.
“No, sir. I meant your type. You are army, I think. And judging by your accent, you’re a Yorkshire man. The Chechen president has a tie with your special forces, so I’m guessing SAS. Am I right?”
“I can’t—”
“Ah, but you have to. You see, tonight is the night. I’ve worked on this operation for weeks. I have planned it to the last disgusting detail. I’ll get him alone — and end his depravities permanently.”
“You’re pretty forthcoming to a man you just met.”
“No. I’m confident in my abilities, that’s all. I know you’re British army, ergo you’re with me.”
Drake cast around desperately for his colleague, but they were alone. “Look. This is a recon. I have no orders to act. I can’t be with you.”